The Lightning Rod, page 18
‘I also heard that one of Midnight Silk’s clients lives at the same address in Woollahra where you were walking the streets before an Uber picked you up last Saturday night. And I know you spend more on clothes than you earn at Pearan Capital. God knows who picks up the make-up bills. I guess—’
The policewoman stops as if she has remembered something more important. She flushes and bites her lip, then pushes her fingers through her hair in a way Harry Unsworth has never done. She lays a hand on Anna’s forearm.
‘Shit. Sorry, that came out the wrong way. It’s up to you how you make your money.’
Anna should rip her arm away again. She should push DS Hall off the jetty or turn and jump into the foul water herself. They know. They have always known. This must be why they have brought her here! To act as their whore. DS Hall does not want her to have fun with Eddy – she clearly does not want Anna ever to have any fun at all – but she probably would not mind if she slept with him just to get information. Because, clearly, that is the kind of cheap slut Anna is. Anna takes a ragged breath, determined not to cry; whatever else she might do, she will not give the vile policewoman that satisfaction. She rummages in her handbag again, desperate to find her Cartiers. The smell around them grows sharper. The little boy will not be the only one to use the bay that way. Anna’s throat tightens and the corners of her mouth grow fizzy.
‘Anna, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ The policewoman looks genuinely apologetic. ‘It’s early, and I haven’t slept well. No one has to know.’
She reaches out and squeezes Anna’s forearm again. No one has to know. And that includes Eddy, presumably. But Eddy will know if Anna does not do what the police want, is that the implication? Eddy will be told she is a slut, a high-class whore, and any chance she might have had of romance with him – the greatest guy she has met to date – will be blown sky high. Just because Anna made one mistake, just one! And it was hideous, that horrible man, pawing at her and grunting on her with his fat face so close she could not escape his breath. On her and in her. As soon as it was over, she knew she could never do anything like that ever again. But according to DS Hall she was ‘walking the streets of Woollahra’. The police know everything and, what they do not know, they will make up. Is that what she is implying?
Anna can feel the world turning, the thousand-mile-an-hour spin beneath her feet. She puts one hand to her mouth and another to her stomach, the nausea tightening in her throat. If only this stupid jetty would collapse. If only the stench-filled bay would swallow her whole so no one could ever see her again.
But why should it be her that disappears beneath the foul water? Why shouldn’t it, for once, be someone else who makes way for Anna to succeed? That is what Hard Hearted Anna would make happen. It is what Jessica would make happen. And it is certainly what Eddy would make happen. Anna says nothing. She just stares at DS Hall, hating her more than she has ever hated anyone in her life.
14.
Bassam could be anywhere. Airside, Ninoy Aquino International Airport is the same slow purgatory as any airport in the world. The sleepwalk from the plane, the slow lottery of the luggage belt, the dragging silence of passport control. Even the dull muzak. Bassam could be in Singapore or Dubai or Hong Kong – anywhere he can’t see on the way to somewhere else. But then him and Szabo get through customs, a door slides, and, bang, they’re in Manila.
They’re crowded in on all sides by excited families, desperate touts and bored drivers with signs. Matrons battle with uniformed officials, hands grab and shove and push and babies are held up like periscopes. Everyone’s in everyone else’s way and, if there’s any air conditioning in the arrivals hall, it’s swamped by the humidity and humanity. It’s a new circle of hell where the only way to survive is to push back harder on the person pushing you.
Szabo turns and barks a rancid ‘Stick close’ before barging his way into the crowd. It’s the only thing the hardman’s said all morning, apart from complaining Bassam didn’t wake him up in time for breakfast. Bassam’s not feeling guilty about that. He’d have gladly swapped the plastic plane meal for a few minutes of sleep. He’s been awake over twenty-four hours now, unable to appreciate a single minute, even though it might be one of his last. He follows Szabo into the press of bodies, too tired and lost and confused to do anything but what he’s told.
Closer to the exit doors to the outside world, the crowd thins and the humidity thickens. Szabo halts and looks around like he’s heard something. Immediately, two Filipinos appear at his side. One of them’s wiry with piercing black eyes and long hair tied back in a ponytail. The other one’s taller and a lot more muscular with a thick black moustache. Both are wearing dark trousers, short-sleeved white shirts and thin black ties. Both give Szabo brutal handshakes. Neither acknowledge Bassam, even once Szabo’s gestured at him. But, when Szabo and the muscular guy walk on, it’s clear Bassam’s supposed to follow. Their wiry friend’s staying behind.
Within seconds of leaving the terminal, Bassam’s covered in sweat. His jeans are heavy and suck tight on his legs, his normally loose t-shirt clings to his sides and back. Like his clothes own him, not the other way round. Any other time Bassam’s walked out into heat like this, it’s brought a smile to his face and made his shoulders relax. Reminded him he was on holiday. Today, it reminds him how lost and far from home he is. How deep he’s fallen into hell and how he’s falling still: everything wrong and out of his control. He follows Szabo and the muscles with the moustache across the chaotic road running along the front of the terminal building. The air between the cars is thick with pollution, the sky overhead bare and pitiless. The men stop beside a black Landcruiser parked among a row of taxis. Its windows are reflective and Bassam catches his own image amongst the glare of the day. An unshaven, dirty man, a shell of what he previously was.
Szabo barks across the bonnet of the Landcruiser. ‘Get in.’
Bassam opens the door and finds himself staring into the narrowed eyes of a teenage boy. Skinny in ripped jeans and a scruffy yellow t-shirt, the kid is grinning open-mouthed like a demon. He’s got one arm stretched along the back of the seat. The hand at its end is holding a gun that looks too heavy for a skimpy kid to handle. At another bark from Szabo, Bassam climbs in beside the kid. Szabo climbs into the front passenger seat, while the muscular man gets behind the wheel, snapping something in Filipino till the teenager slides the gun into the belt of his jeans. When the driver snaps louder still, the kid rolls his eyes, pulls the gun out again and lays it on the floor between his feet.
They don’t drive, not yet, and they don’t talk either. They just sit in the car’s gentle air conditioning while Szabo and the driver stare over the road at the airport building. Bassam stares that way too, if only to avoid the malicious grins of the kid beside him. Everything outside looks fake. Maybe it’s the car’s one-way glass playing with the light. Or maybe this is all Bassam gets now – an imitation of life, seeing as how he’s thrown away the good one he was originally given.
Between them and the terminal building, there’s a little drama playing out. A beaten-up Mitsubishi has screeched to a stop now it disgorges three overweight Filipinos, including the driver herself. Ignoring the angry horns from the traffic stuck behind their car, the three are wobbling at speed to the far pavement. They’re calling out to a tired family of four trundling suitcases through the sticky heat. And now the family on the pavement is looking up at the noise and, with sudden smiles, abandoning their luggage. They’re running with outspread arms to the people running at them and, while Bassam watches, the two groups hug and cry and laugh at each other crying. By now, there’s a full-on traffic jam behind the Mitsubishi, a mess of horns growing louder by the second, every car complaining in a different tone, like an orchestra warming up for the main event. But the family doesn’t care. The family are laughing and—
Inside the Landcruiser, there’s a loud ping. The two men in the front flinch. The driver checks his phone and, without a word, climbs out into the ferocious heat. Before Szabo follows, he turns and snarls at Bassam.
‘You do what this kid tells you. Otherwise he shoots you, got it?’
Bassam nods, and Szabo slams the door closed between them.
What the kid tells Bassam to do is to put something on his head. Trouble is, the kid’s English isn’t so crash hot, so, once he’s thrown a piece of limp material over to Bassam, he just repeats, ‘Put on head; put on head’ in his unbroken voice. Then he picks up the gun from the floor and gestures with it loosely till Bassam – after one last look at the family reunion – picks up the material from his lap.
‘Put on head!’
At first it looks like a beanie. Then Bassam unfolds it some more, and it’s a thin black hood like a balaclava. He reaches up and pulls it over his head, arranging the nose and mouth holes so he can breathe. There are no eye holes. Bassam can still picture the family reunion, but. The family of four included two girls, tweens of ten or eleven or twelve. Old enough to have forgotten any lost relative who looked after them when they were little. When Lulu and Sarah get to that age, even if Asia prompts them to think about Bassam, he’ll just be a name on their family tree. It’s selfish to feel bad about that. It doesn’t matter if the girls remember him or not. All that matters is they’re safe. But of all the things Bassam’s been through in the last few days, this is the one thing what upsets him the most. The knowledge his girls will grow up and not even remember him. Or, worse, that their lasting memory of him will be as the violent madman who terrified them in their own home.
He takes a ragged breath. Whatever else happens, the kid beside him is not going to see him cry. Then the boy makes a sudden move, and Bassam flinches in defence, in case he’s going to get hit with the gun. But all that comes is the deep clunk click of one of the car’s doors opening and, a moment later, the heat and humidity of the day outside. There’s an argument outside the car, men’s voices growing louder as they approach. Then there’s a deep clap and a grunt of pain. Whoever’s been hit, they’re hit again, and now once more, till the car rocks and someone climbs in beside Bassam, into the space between him and where the kid was sitting. Some kind of struggle’s going on and an elbow jabs Bassam in the ribs. Then there’s another punch and here’s Szabo’s voice, right next to him and grunting with effort.
‘Give us your wrists or you’ll get another one with this. Not you, Bassam, you dickhead.’
The door closes again, and now there’s three of them on the back seat. Szabo’s pressed close against Bassam, and there’s someone else beyond him breathing heavy. Bassam sits very still, waiting for the pain of whatever’s coming next. The driver’s door opens and shuts around another rock of the car, the engine starts and they’re off.
‘I don’t want to die.’ Bassam’s words speak themselves, his thoughts forming on his lips and whispered double-quiet in case that brings less violence his way. ‘Or, if I’ve gotta die, I don’t want it to hurt. Will you do that for me, Tony, make it not hurt?’
Szabo tells Bassam to shut the hell up, and they drive on in a silence broken only by the laboured breathing of whoever’s been forced into the car. But after twenty minutes – or maybe two hours – Szabo presses something heavy and plastic into Bassam’s hands. It’s a rough and clumsy gesture but, when Szabo speaks, his voice is less aggressive than Bassam’s heard it before.
‘That’s water. Make it last. And listen, you moron, if they was going to kill us, they wouldn’t make us wear these stupid hoods, would they? Just do what you’re told. Keep your eyes shut, and your mouth shutter, and you’ll be right. We just need to talk to the big boss. He’s fair dinkum, you’ll see.’
‘Are you wearing a hood too then? Are you—’
‘What did I just say about keeping your mouth shut?’
There’s a loud sniggering from the front of the car, and Szabo tells the driver to shut the hell up too.
Bassam breathes slowly. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. It doesn’t help him relax. What does help is the creeping realisation there’s nothing he can do. At home, he’d thought there’d be an opportunity to get away. In the airport, and even on the plane, he’d thought there be a chance for him to run soon. Now he can see what a joke that was. From the moment he met Szabo, he was a dead man. Understanding that at last is weirdly relaxing.
There. Is. Nothing. You. Can. Do.
Like a drowning man letting go of a half-sunken raft, Bassam leans his head back against the headrest and falls into a black pit of sleep.
15.
‘El Pararrayos is just the top of my mountain. She is beautiful, no?’
Mendoza is gesticulating proudly, shouting over the wind of the open ocean and the noise of the outboard motor. The island they’re approaching is impressive, far bigger than Charlie had expected, but she lets Harry Unsworth give it no more than a minimal acknowledgement. She, the secretary, Mendoza and Barney are in a fast-moving RHIB, a rigid-hulled inflatable boat. Charlie’s familiar with the type from anti-trafficking operations, intercepting craft with customs officials. This one’s been decked out with comfortable seats and a space to hold the passengers’ luggage, a windscreen to keep them dry. It’s still pretty bumpy, though, and both Harry and Jessica are holding on tight. Barney, who clearly does more than the catering, is at the wheel, having replaced the silent Filipina who drove the RHIB into the bay where they left the Range Rover. Mendoza is on his feet, playing the tour guide.
‘My mountain is 4,000 metres high from the ocean floor. An old volcano, you see? That grey rock bit there, it is dried lava. And that tower of rock in the middle, yes? That is what gives my mountain her name – El Pararrayos.’
‘What does it mean?’
Jessica, hair loose in the wind, might not be talking to Harry anymore but, with Mendoza she’s bang on cue, wide-eyed and open to education. He rewards her with a crocodile smile.
‘It means “lightning rod”.’
‘Oh, a lightning rod.’ Jessica repeats it obediently, staring up at the tower of rock.
Grey and pockmarked, it looks more like one of Roper’s bony fingers, pointed at heaven in warning. At the rock tower’s base, still high above the ocean, is what looks a brown building. Tiny from this distance, the building’s rear walls seem a continuation of the sheer cliff face below. Below that are more cliffs, gigantic steps the colour of ash all the way down to the sea. But only one half of the island is grey.
‘That is where the crater collapsed after the volcano’s last explosion. Don’t worry, Jessica – it was many thousands of years ago. And we must not look at it once we land. We will see only the jungle, and that is very beautiful.’
Mendoza sweeps his arm. A thick canopy of a thousand greens carpets the rest of the island. Here the land slopes more gently, and the jungle appears unbroken as it climbs to the base of the rock tower. The brown building sits at the meeting point of the green and the grey.
The RHIB is not the final stage of the journey to Mendoza’s villa. To enter his inner sanctum, they must take a boxy black jeep, parked on the island’s jetty with its keys in the ignition.
‘One of the perks of a private island – no car crime! Please, ladies, after you.’
There will be only four of them on El Pararrayos. Barney, of course, will look after the catering. First though, he will drive them all in the jeep up a winding track through the jungle. They skirt precipitous canyons, shadowy dells and, even here, a persistent acne of solidified lava. The way is always up, the finger of rock beckoning them on, until, at the very last turn, Mendoza’s villa swings into view. Close up, it’s a squat red-brick building, mock-missionary style, mock-Spanish something, mock-Georgian front door. It has a flat roof, windows with rusting frames and a broken-down carport over another pristine jeep – this one navy blue.
Two hours later, Charlie is on the deck that clings to the villa’s eastern side. From this angle, El Pararrayos is nothing but green, a smooth sapphire of jungle floating on a turquoise sea. Charlie peers down, searching for gaps in the canopy that might reveal a route down to a beach. Because that’s where Jessica’s gone, apparently, down to ‘our little beach’ with Barney, without bothering to check with Harry if that’s alright. Hopefully the girl’s got the brains to realise the Irishman should be trusted as little as his boss.
‘This is your fault, Harry.’
Mendoza strides out onto the deck. He has showered and changed. In a white linen shirt and beige trousers, he’d be the picture of a rich man on holiday if it wasn’t for the huge satellite phone jammed to his ear. He opens his mouth to speak to her again, then frowns and hunches at what he hears on the phone. Soon he is pacing back and forth, snarling questions and shouting orders into the handset. Then, waiting for a response on the line, he’s talking to Harry again.
‘I say it again, this is your fault. If you are not so nervous, my team can deal with all these things like they normally do.’
Charlie lets Harry lean against the frail wood that separates her from the view. ‘I thought you were across every detail, Ed? It’s what you’re famous for.’
‘Across it, yes. That does not mean I am dealing with it. Now I must ...’ He snaps into the phone again. ‘Hello? ... What about it? ...’
Mendoza carries the call inside and slides the door shut between them. Charlie smiles and turns to watch four white birds flap slowly from the canopy before floating high, high, higher on the thermals. Daniel would have told her what kind they are. He had a thing about birds, nature in general, in fact.
Charlie swears aloud and shakes her head. She’s planned carefully for her conversations with Mendoza, there’s nothing more to think about there. So, instead, she forces her thoughts onto Roper and what she might still get away with. If the dialogue in Pyrmont provides nothing of value, she might not need to tell the Chief Inspector she used the safehouse at all. She can’t imagine he checks the department’s finances to that level of detail. And, unless Anna Moore demands payment for this trip, there’s no reason Roper should ever find out the secretary came to the Philippines either.
